We are all museums of fear
by recycled-stars
Summary: After Amelia Shepherd experiences a personal and medical crisis, Addison, Derek and Mark try to help her recover, even if that means following her across the continent to a small clinic in Central America.
1. Prologue

_the only solace left to us is to hide  
>alone in the middle of night in some deserted<br>place._  
>- from <em>Poem for Nobody<em> by Charles Bukowski.

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><p><strong>Prologue.<strong>

Even in the pale light cast by a setting sun, the jungle was hot, languid, sticky. She could feel it on her skin. The day had been long, though not as long as the one that preceded it. It had been almost a week since they'd left the States and her forty-year-old body was starting to protest the somewhat makeshift sleeping arrangement. She let one hand kneed into her neck. At least today she had managed to avoid performing an emergency surgery in an unsterile environment. At least today, nobody had been shot. Funny, how perspective could shift. The concerns of her Los Angeles persona seemed quite trivial now.

She stretched her arms above her head and yawned. They had risen with the sun, which after twelve hours of summer glare, had finally slipped beyond the horizon. Twelve hours of daylight meant nearly twelve hours of work, which was as gratifying as it was exhausting. She'd seen more patients that day than she'd seen in the past month at Oceanside, and yet, their stories resonated with her more. There was the mother who had walked from a property on the outskirts of town for hours to get her sick son looked at. There were two smiling twin boys who had cried when she gave them their immunisations. There was the sixteen-year-old Mayan girl who was pregnant. She remembered their faces, even when she couldn't remember their names.

There was one patient in particular that was occupying her thoughts though; the day old baby boy, who had maintained his healthy flush after she had administered morphine and phenylephrine. He was motherless and his heart murmured at her, loudly and clearly pronouncing a congenital heart defect; pulmonary stenosis and a ventricular-septal defect at least. He needed surgery, but their supplies were growing pitiful and she couldn't bring herself to cut open the chest of a newborn without any imaging to guide her. She sighed and let her legs hang over the branch she was perched on, into the river.

She bent and cupped her hands, splashing water in her face in an attempt to wash the day off. It was welcome and cool against her cheeks, sliding down her neck to sink into the neck of her tank top, saturating the fabric between her breasts. She licked it off her lips, mingled with sweat and sunscreen.

She felt his presence before she turned to find him watching her. He was standing on the bank, contemplative, one boot braced against the branch. When he caught her eye he smiled. She raised one hand, pale skin purple in the dying light and motioned for him to join her. "Come on then."

He unlaced the shoes and kicked them off, rolling his jeans up to his knees. "Are you sure we won't be dinner for some kind of aquatic carnivore?"

"It's not the Amazon Mark," she patted the weathered bark of the tree. "And I read something in one of the guidebooks about the Mexican crocodile being critically endangered."

He made a face at that thought, but teetered out and crouched beside her, letting his own legs wade beside hers in the currents. "It's still hot as hell; I almost don't care if I lose a limb." His eyes wandered over her wet upper body. He was subtle in his appreciation. "Does that help any?"

She shrugged. "Some. See for yourself," she scooped up a handful of water and flung it in his face. Instead of retaliating though, he breathed a sigh of momentary relief and bent at the waist, letting her slosh water over his head with her feet. Righting himself, and shaking his head like a dog, he let his hand bump against her thigh, "Thanks."

She shivered as his pinky skimmed over the hem of her shorts and met skin. "No problem. How's World War Three progressing?"

"Derek and Amelia? I think they've called some kind of truce," he ran a hand through his wet hair. "They disappeared after you did, walked off somewhere. You're all going to get yourselves killed of course; it's getting far too dark to wander around in this shithole."

She nudged him in the ribs with her elbow. "Don't be precious, princess."

"I'm serious Addison. Have you seen the undergrowth?" he slapped at a mosquito on her shoulder. The sting of his hand made her suck in a breath; it reminded her of sex and the exhilarating thrill of pain. He'd always pushed her boundaries. He dipped his hand in the water and wiped it against his jeans. "I think you'd break an ankle during the _day _if you weren't careful."

"You worry too much," she curled her hands around the branch and let her weight fall back, hair trailing back, swinging against the arc of her back.

"California has made you relaxed," he observed. It was meant as a rejoinder, but it lacked punch.

She let her foot slip against his calf beneath the water, "Is that a bad thing?"

"No," he shook his head. "I like you this way."

Around them, the squalling birds and soft rustle of leaves that punctuated the jungle by day had given way to a cacophony of insects, buzzing and chirping in the night air. Between that and the hush of running water, she felt a part of something much bigger than just the two of them, a kind of energy humming around them, between them, over them. He leant into her shoulder. "What are you thinking?"

She felt a blush creep into her cheeks and was thankful the moon was still too low to provide real light.

He read her silence though, and reached out to catch her chin between his fingers. The danced along her jaw, guiding her face towards his. She wet her lips but shook her head, just slightly, so he stopped just short of kissing her. Their noses bumped together.

"Why?" he asked her, the words a warm rush of air against her cheeks.

"Mark," she whispered, "I'm in love with Sam."

"So?" he whispered back, "I'm in love with Lexie."

As soon as he said it, she closed the distance between their mouths, breathing into the kiss. His tongue was pliant against hers, but he still kissed her back, in a familiar tug-of-war they had long ago perfected. It grew more insistent. His hand tangled in her hair just behind her ear, fist nudging her jaw. She leant her weight against him, reaching up to twine one hand in his shirt. It ended with them both breathless, chests heaving. He let his mouth drop to her shoulder.

"Tell me all the reasons this is a terrible idea," she lamented, quietly, as his tongue drew a lazy circle.

"You taste like sunscreen and insect repellent," he murmured. "But that's the best I've got."

One of his hands was suddenly between her legs, the back of his palm glancing against her thighs. She shivered. "I'm serious."

"Are you still _with _Sam?" he made a token effort. His fingers were tracing the skin where her thighs met her body, coming dangerously close to the seam of her underwear. She let her teeth sink into her lip.

"It's complicated," she managed to stammer. His teeth sank into her clavicle and the breath she had been holding shook free. "I'm not entirely sure where we stand. Are you with Lexie?"

His mouth shuddered into her neck with a hollow laugh. He dropped a light kiss against her pulse and sat upright hand stilling. He left it resting on her leg though. "No. We haven't been together since before Sofia was born. Nothing different on that score. Look, I won't lie to you, I'm not looking to start something. I just... being here, with_you_," he looked at her, helpless, searching for words. He fisted his hand around the seam of her denim cut-offs.

She covered it with her own, sliding her fingers between his knuckles, "I know what you mean."

She let her head slip against his shoulder, closed her eyes for a minute. He uncurled his fist and gripped her fingers.

"You were right you know," she said, "Back in Seattle, after I left Derek. We were good together."

"Still are," he let his chin rest atop her head. "And I'm sure we still could be, sexually speaking."

She snorted. "Only you Mark. We were having a moment."

She pulled back to look at him. His eyes were twinkling with mischief. "Who says we're not still?"

"You sullied it with your lustful thoughts," she was smirking. He was smirking back.

"Maybe," he leant forward, inches from her face. "But you enjoyed it," he challenged.

She quirked an eyebrow but he kissed her before she could answer him, fierce and hot, and the force of it caused her to grip the branch tightly with her free hand. He was crowding her with his body, his free hand reached across and slid along her abdomen, along the cage of her ribs to the swell of her chest. She hummed appreciation into the kiss, nails digging into the hand he was holding, toes flexing in the water. He breathed over her mouth, "See? Still great."

Suddenly, feeling an impulse, she let her weight slide from the branch into the water, tugging on his hand until he lost his balance and fell in after her. He shrieked rather girlishly and she grinned, submerging herself in the river. When she re-surfaced, he was treading water beside her. She swam closer and pressed her wet mouth against his. "You're right," she murmured seductively, licking droplets from his chin, his stubble scratchy beneath her tongue, "Still great."

Her shirt hitched towards her shoulders. He let a hand curl around her naked torso and pressed her up against the branch. It braced her scapulae. She felt him kick out to stay afloat, hands pressing roughly into her body, and tipped her head back to stare at the bright light of the stars, winking down from beneath the canopy. His mouth tugged at her earlobe, "What are you thinking?"

She brought her hand to his face, tracing the line of his jaw with her fingers, thumb pressed to the corner of his mouth. "The sky is so clear here. Everything here is."

When he kissed her, she let her eyes slip closed.

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><p><em>Author's Notes: <em>I started this after the finale of Grey's Anatomy Season 7 and Private Practice Season 4. It picks up from that point in canon, but will be AU from here on out. Eventually I'll change the rating to M, but for now, PG seems adequate. This is the first thing I've written for this fandom in a long time, but Mark and Addison will probably always be my OTP, and the relationship between Mark, Addison, Derek and Amelia Shepherd pre-series has always fascinated me. This will deal with the canon relationships of the characters and their past in equal measure.

I started this for ga_fanfic (at livejournal)'s summer big bang challenge, so it's relatively lengthy even though this prologue is on the short side. It's about half complete, and I'm hoping that posting will motivate me to write the rest!

As always, leave any and all thoughts and comments as reviews. Feedback, while unnecessary, is appreciated. :)


	2. Chapter One

Author's Notes:In which we find Addison (&Co. at OGW) in the midst of a long night after a medical emergency.

Side note: I'm just about to enter the last month of my first year of medical school, so things are about to get pretty intense on the study front. I should be able to post weekly until after exams are done, but I apologize for that lethargic speed... I really do need to pass my course and I've been neglecting study lately. So, I guess I'm just begging for your patience. Feel free to share any and all thoughts below. :)

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><p><strong>Chapter One.<strong>

_One week earlier. _

After years of working in hospitals, Addison had learned to tune out the regular, repeating blip of heart monitors. Brady- or tachycardia or an abnormal rhythm would all pique her attention, but a steady pulse went virtually unnoticed. Now though, the machines pierced through the throbbing in her temples and the sound of her own pulse in her ears, even through the glass. She let her forehead rest on the cool window, braced on her hands, and took a deep, shaky breath.

Sam's hand was on her shoulder. She felt him squeeze it once before he pulled back. "I have to go," he told her quietly.

She swallowed and nodded, but didn't turn to look at him.

"Addison," he spoke louder this time, commanding her attention.

She felt her shoulders slump into a sigh and met his gaze in their reflections. They both looked like hell. The shirt he had been wearing yesterday was rolled up to his elbows, the top buttons revealing the beginnings of his chest. It was creased with wear. Her hair was hanging limply about her face, desperately in need of a wash, and she was still wearing the T-shirt and sweats she'd pulled on after work. A single green stain from the Thai food they'd been eating when she got the call adorned the fabric on the curve of her left breast.

She brought her hand up to massage her aching neck. "What?"

"It's five thirty in the morning," he reached up and kneaded her neck with both hands. She rolled her head from side to side, groaning softly as the knots in her muscles undid themselves. "You can't do anything more for her tonight. You should go home."

Addison shook her head. "No. I want to be here, when she wakes up."

She heard him open his mouth to say _if_but he thought better of it. It was lucky. She thought she might actually lose it if she heard him say it, and she didn't know if she was angry enough to scream or emotionally exhausted enough to cry. She bit down on her teeth to stop herself from doing either.

"You have the meeting today, with your lawyers about the new practice," he reminded her.

"I'll reschedule," she said, sounding absent but her mind wasn't really elsewhere. She wasn't exactly_ present_either. She felt blank.

"Are you sure?" she could tell he wasn't pleased with that decision by his tone. It raised her ire, at him and the situation, ever so slightly. "Don't push me," she took a step away from him and brought her arms up to clasp her elbows, defensively. "Not after the night I've had. I'm not in the mood for it."

"I'm just saying, this isn't just _your_ future on the line here," he reached out for one of her elbows, trying to unfurl her fingers. She remained steadfast. He settled for curling his hand around her bicep, running it up and down her arm. "This new practice, I know it's your money, but it's _our_jobs. You wanted to disband OGW, that's fine, we've done that, legally and financially. But now? We're all waiting."

"I know Sam," she sighed, relented, uncrossed her arms and let him take one of her hands. He laced their fingers together. "And I will ... I will deal with it as soon as I can. But she's my family. I have to be here. The others will understand. Can you?"

"I have to get home." He evaded the question or was too distracted by other pressing concerns to reply properly. "I'm due back here in a few hours. Page me, if you need anything."

Addison found herself disappointed by his non-answer, as she had been more and more often recently. She pushed that feeling aside though. She was over-tired and emotionally wrought. Now was not the time to be contemplating the sum of her life, such as it was. It might lead to rash decisions. She let him kiss her cheek.

"I have to call Derek," she remembered quietly as he righted himself. "He should know."

He gave her a sad look. "Please. Tell me if there's anything I can do."

She smiled, sadly. "There's not. It's okay. I know you're trying."

"And I know you're hurting," he observed, "And I hate it."

She squeezed his hand, "I know. I'm sorry." She leant over and kissed him softly. "I know you're trying. That's enough Sam, for now. Now, go. You'll be late."

"You sure I can't convince you to come with me?" He hesitated after taking a step backward, their entwined hands stretched between them. "Not even for a shower and a coffee?"

"Charlotte's gone to get coffee," she reminded him. "And I'll be fine here. I promise I'll reschedule the meeting for tomorrow. And I'll page you if there's any change."

He nodded. "Okay. Bye."

She mustered a more genuine looking smile and let her fingers curl into a half-wave. As soon as he turned, her face fell. Her brow creased. Her hand, however, remained suspended, an echo of her former gesture. She let it press against the hospital glass, tracing the woven mesh embedded within the pane.

In the room beyond, Amelia lay as though sleeping. Her face was unnaturally pale, a sharp contrast to the shadows of the room. She looked peaceful though, and Addison was struck by a old wonder that had remained with her throughout her career in medicine, that the body could look so still belying the flurry of activity beneath the layers of skin, muscle and bone. Her liver and kidneys would be working in tandem to metabolise and excrete the remaining pills in her system. The naloxone had already brought her respiratory function back to within normal limits and the adrenalin restored her blood pressure. The sheet rose and fell with her steady breathing.

Addison found herself counting, holding her own breath as she did; one, two, three, four in fifteen seconds, respiratory rate of 16 breaths per minute, O2 saturation steady at 99%, BP 115 on 68, heart rate 70. All normal, unremarkable, stats she wouldn't even spare a glance at in a patient.

Someone bumped into her shoulder lightly.

She turned her head to see Charlotte King, looking similarly night-worn, holding two cups of coffee. They were hospital cups. Charlotte extended one in her direction, contritely. "It's too early for the Starbucks across the street. This is all I could find."

Addison shook her head. "It's fine," she murmured, blowing at the surface of the dark brown liquid until it lapped at the edges of the Styrofoam. "Thank you."

"No change?" Charlotte ignored the steam wafting from her own cup and took a proper sip. She made a face when the liquid scalded her tongue, but swallowed it down just the same.

"Vitals are stable. She should have woken up hours ago."

"You know it's never easy to predict these things." Charlotte was half hospital administrator, half concerned friend. Her lab coat had been thrown haphazardly over the sweater and jeans she'd been wearing at home. Her hospital ID badge was clipped to the pocket by its hard metal teeth. She pulled at the tag absently, the elastic that allowed her to raise it to swipe into any of the restricted areas of the building protesting until she let it snap back up to the clip.

"She should have woken up," Addison repeated. "Unless there was too much damage..."

"We won't know until she regains consciousness." Charlotte swallowed another mouthful of the God-awful coffee and seriously considered whether she could stretch the budget for a proper machine with a more flavoursome blend. She warmed her hands against the insulated cup largely ineffectually. "For now, there's no use standing here worrying yourself over hypotheticals."

"That's what Sam said," Addison remarked offhandedly. She was back to counting Amelia's respiratory rate.

Charlotte's hand closed around her wrist, blocking her view of the face of her watch. She sighed. "I know. You're both right. But... it was _my_house Charlotte. If I'd been there... I just... how did I not notice?"

Charlotte shrugged; she was struggling with a different kind of guilt. "Sometimes we don't see things we don't want to see. Believe me, it's worse to have missed it entirely than to have seen it and been powerless to do a damn thing about it."

Addison turned to her, surprised. "You knew?"

"Not about the pills," the hospital ID badge snapped up and purred down again. She wasn't usually a fidgety type, but the night hadn't exactly been usual. "I knew she was drinking again. Why do you think I revoked her surgical privileges?"

"I didn't even know about _that_," Addison folded her arm across her body. "Christ. She's _living_in my spare room. How did I not know?"

"You've been busy, with the practice, with your personal life," Charlotte shrugged. "You miss things. It happens. Especially with addicts. I know I don't have to tell you. They hide it. Until one day, they slip up."

"You covered for her."

Charlotte nodded. "I shouldn't have. But I did."

"Why?"

"Why or why not? Why? Because I know what it's like. Why not? Because if I hadn't, if I'd made an official complaint to the medical board, maybe she'd be in a rehab right now and not ... like this. I knew it when I did it, that I was enabling. But after..." she paused; it still wasn't easy to say it. "After the rape. She was there for me. We went to meetin's together."

"Well we all overlook protocol for the people we care about," her words bore more than their apparent significance. Charlotte looked at her, bemused. She explained herself in due time. "I'm sorry, for doing the rape kit without telling you."

"Don't be," she turned back to Amelia. Addison studied her reflection in the glass."I wasn't myself. Hell, before it happened to me, I would've said the same thing to any patient that came in here. I always thought I'd want to nail the bastard. But at the time, I just wanted it to be over." She changed the subject. "Did you speak to her, before?"

"I..." Addison shook her head, "She told me she was working at UCLA Medical Centre for a while. She never said it was because you revoked her privileges. You don't think she did this on purpose. Charlotte?"

Her colleague looked thoughtful. "No. But she shouldn't have been performing surgeries. She knew it. I knew it. I... we'll know more when she wakes up."

_If, if, if_. It echoed in Addison's head which was beginning to swim from lack of sleep.

"I have to call Derek," she repeated to herself, her hand clutching around her cell phone in the pocket of her sweats. She didn't have anything on her, just her cell in one pocket and her keys in the other. She didn't have her car; Sam had driven. That meant going home was going to be more complicated than she could bear to think of at that moment. She sighed. "The hospital called Mrs Shepherd I hope."

Charlotte bristled slightly, instinctually protective of _her_hospital. "The hospital informed her next of kin. I don't know who it was. You'll have to check the file."

Addison nodded once. "Well. I'll be just outside. You'll come and find me if anything changes?"

"I promise."

She actually called from inside the hospital, in the waiting area beyond the short stay area of the emergency department where Amelia was being held. If she didn't wake up by change over they'd have to find her a spot on the wards. Using cell phones in the waiting room was against hospital policy. A nurse glared at her and pointed to a huge sign behind her head on which Uncle Sam proclaimed "_I want you! ... to turn off your cell phone. _"

She covered the mouth piece with her hand. "I'll only be a second."

"Everybody's always only going to be a second," the nurse grumbled. "Fine. Montgomery isn't it? I tell you what, you cover this phone long enough for me to run to the bathroom and you can talk as long as you like. We've been running flat out all night and I haven't had a chance to go."

Addison shrugged and rounded the desk, pausing for the nurse to dart from the swivelling chair before plonking herself down. She rested her head on her elbow and ran her fingers along her hairline, cursing softly into the cell. Dial tone rang in her ear. "Come on Derek," she urged. "Pick up."

It went through the voice mail. She left an awkward message and sat, twisting on the chair absently, reading the chart of a pregnant woman who'd come in with a suspected first-trimester miscarriage. She curled her hand into a fist and let it bump against her forehead. She was going crazy. It was ridiculous, to be jealous of a woman having a miscarriage because at least _she_could get pregnant. Addison was a world-class surgeon, babies were her job, and yet...

It taunted her. _Babies nearly ruined your relationship with Sam_, said the voice in her head, _and now, maybe you were so distracted that you missed all the signs, maybe now babies will ruin your relationship with Amelia too_.

She brought her fist down a little more violently than she intended on the desk, effectively silencing her vicious inner monologue. She was tired, guilty and frustrated. She started at her silent phone and cursed again. "Damnit Derek."

Unable to suppress a yawn, she lay across the desk and closed her eyes. _Just for a second_, she promised herself.


	3. Chapter Two

Author's Notes: I'm quite sorry this is so tardy. I'm in the last five weeks of my first year of medical school and things are little bit insane on the study front. Never mind. I appreciated all the feedback from my small readership! I hope you like this one too guys. Thanks so much.

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><p><strong>Chapter Two.<strong>

The hint of dawn on the horizon woke Derek from another night of uncomfortable sleep. He sat, ignoring the protests of his neck and lower back and ran a hand over his face to clear the fog of sleep from his mind. His muscles ached, punishment for spending a weekend sleeping at a construction site. So far, Seattle hadn't lived up to its reputation for rain. For that, he was grateful. He was feeling a lot more at peace, with the world, with his life, with his wife. Meredith. He had been ignoring her calls for over 24 hours. He twisted to check his watch. Five forty five. She might be awake, if she was on shift. He couldn't remember her roster for the week and felt like a terrible husband. Maybe he was. He sighed. He'd known from past experience that marriage was complicated; a series of battles his father had said to him once, before he died._The trick, son, is being able to pick the important ones_. Well, he gritted his teeth, this was certainly a worthy fight.

He groped around for where he had thrown his cell the night before. Twenty missed calls. He took a deep breath. The trouble with battles was that eventually you had to fight them out. He was ready.

With his free hand pressed into his back he stood, and stretched his legs, wandering around in the pre-dawn light and wriggling his toes into the dewy grass, trying to find reception. He hit the button on his cell to view his missed calls. Most of them were from Meredith, as he anticipated, but the most recent was from _Addison Cell_at five forty. They hadn't spoken on the phone in months; there was no reason she should be calling him that early.

He hit the screen, dialling her number.

She answered on the second ring, voice heavy with sleep. "Derek!"

"Addison?" he responded, "You called me?"

He heard her yawn down the line. It crackled with static. The block of land was too far from the city to have decent cell coverage. He tried walking up the hill a ways. The sun was rising in the distance, the city slowly unfurling before him in the growing light. "Sorry, wait a minute, I can't hear you."

"Derek?" she was calling, far too loudly once he finally found a proper signal. "Can you hear me?"

"Addison." (He pulled the phone from his ear.) "Yes. Sorry. I can hear you now. What's this  
>about?"<p>

"It's Amelia." Derek distinctly heard her say it, but from then on, her voice seemed more distant. It wasn't the line this time, just the worry rising in him. His sister was an addict - he knew it better than anyone - and while he knew she'd recovered well enough, he also knew that he'd never stop expecting _the_call. Sure enough. "She ... we think it was oxycodone Derek. She overdosed. She's at St Ambrose now."

"Has someone called my mother?" It was the first thing he thought to ask.

"The nurses should have called her or left a message last night," his ex-wife told him, "But she was brought in at eleven. It would have been late in New York."

"How did you find her?"

"She wasn't breathing," Addison told him quietly. "She had a pulse, but barely, not enough to be happy with it. Sam was with me, we did CPR until the paramedics arrived. As soon as they gave her the naloxone she started breathing again. Her vitals are stable now, but she hasn't woken up."

"How long?" he asked.

"I don't know Derek. I came home and found her. It was probably ten minutes until she was breathing on her own. But I don't know how long it was before we got there."

"_Fuck_," he made a fist and brought it slamming into his thigh.

Addison sucked in a breath. He never swore.

"She's ... well, we're all hopeful that she'll pull through," she said, but he could tell she didn't really mean it.

"She's such a ... God. I could kill her," he sighed, the anger draining out of him almost immediately. "Ok. Thanks Addison. I'll come as soon as I can."

On the other end of the line, Addison nodded then half-smiled at her futile gesture. "Do. I'll call you if there's any change."

"Sure," the line crackled between them as they took pause. "Addie," he said finally, "Go home. Get some sleep."

She sighed. "Not sure I could if I wanted to."

"At least have a shower at the hospital," he urged gently. Ten years of marriage didn't teach you nothing about a person and he knew his ex-wife; she'd be all exhausted nerves and wired on caffeine before he got there.

That did draw a soft laugh. "You know me too well."

"Maybe."

"Thanks Derek," she said, simply. "I'll see you soon."

She cut the line before he had a chance to respond. He stared at the screen for a moment, rendered essentially functionless by the glare of the sunrise behind him, before shoving it into the front pocket of his jeans. He let his shoulders slump, seriously wondering what he had to do to catch a break. It had been a tumultuous week. He felt as though his whole world was spinning on a dime, and he was waiting with baited breath to see on which side it fell. He knew he should call Meredith, to fill her in on what had happened at least. But he was going to need to stop by the house anyway on his way to the airport and his fingers were already hovering over another familiar name. He hit call.

By the second ring, he started to doubt himself. He wasn't sure what the etiquette was when phoning a new parent. Then again, Mark's parenting situation was hardly traditional. Derek didn't even know if he had Sofia. If he didn't, though, there was always the possibility that this early on a Saturday morning Mark Sloan was nursing a hangover and a leggy blonde. Derek had known him a long time, and kid or no, Mark Sloan was Mark Sloan. He was just about to cut the line when his childhood friend's warbled voice sounded in his ear. "Lo?"

"Mark?"

"Jesus Christ Derek. Does this even qualify as morning? I'm pretty sure it still counts as the middle of the fucking night."

"Always a charmer in the morning," he teased wryly.

"Well _fuck_. Sofia was screeching until three. I swear I just fell asleep. You'd better have a good excuse."

"I do."

"Out with it," Mark had already caught on to a hint of something in his voice. That was why he had called in the first place. There was something about an old friend in a tragedy. They knew you, inside and out. You could be as annoying and selfish and needy as you liked and they'd still love you for it. Well, not outwardly - outwardly Mark would bitch and complain - but character flaws aside, he had always been there when it counted, with that one looming exception.

"It's Amelia," he relayed the information Addison had just given him. "I have to go to LA. And things with Meredith," he paused, "Christ Mark. Everything is just so screwed up."

Mark was silent. He swung his legs to the floor and paced the length of his bed. "Callie and Arizona won't be awake for a few hours. I'll leave Sofia with them and meet you at the airport."

"You don't have to do that," Derek scuffed a dew-soaked sock through the wet grass. "I'll be fine."

"Derek. You and Addison are both a mess, and you haven't heard from your mother. She's your sister, _hell_, she's practically my sister," he didn't even pause to consider the implications of _that_statement, "And the others are going to want to come out too, if it's bad news. You're going to need a sounding board, someone to keep you from putting your fist through a wall."

"You're sure you don't mind leaving the baby?" he had walked back down the hill to the half-finished house and was kicking the sleeping bag into something resembling folded. He crossed an arm across his chest.

"She's barely six months old Derek, and she was a premmie. She's only just starting to develop a personality beyond crying and shitting and spitting up all over me. The interesting developmental milestones don't happen for a few months at least, and she was premmie," he was silent for a beat then added, "I mean I _love_her and all..."

"Don't doubt it. Ok, fine. I have to swing by the house first, so the timing should work. But Mark?"

"Yes?"

"For God's sake, it'll be a short trip, just pack a carry on."

"I'm not even going to dignify that with a response."

"I'm just _saying_."

"Well don't."

"Fine. I'll see you soon."

He cut the line as his childhood best friend let off a string of curses. He wedged it into his pocket and stooped to gather the sleeping bag and a few assorted, other items. They were promptly deposited in the back of his car. He returned for his shoes, threw those at the foot of the passenger side of the SUV and slumped behind the wheel. Agitated, he tapped the steering wheel for a few seconds before throwing the car into gear.

He drove too fast on the deserted freeways. Meredith would have killed him, not to mention that another speeding ticket would probably result in a long-term suspension of his license. Still. There was something about speed that leant clarity to his jumbled thoughts. And there was also the matter of time.

He pulled into the driveway of Ellis Grey's house just after seven. As usual, the street looked like they were hosting a party: the cars of Meredith's strays (as he privately thought of the colleagues she had invited to live with them) vying for parking space. He parked obstinately - the front bumper a hairsbreadth from the rear of Lexie's car and the trunk protruding into the gutter - and cut the engine, but remained fixed in place in the driver's seat. He searched the windows of the house for signs of life, hints of what kind of reception he could expect, but he found none.

_Suck it up_, he thought, his internal monologue eerily similar to Mark's voice, and forced himself out of the car, slamming the door behind him.

His key stuck in the lock, as it had a habit of doing, and he cursed, pulled it to the left, jimmied up and down and twisted it again. The glass door swung open with a creak that reminded him that he'd promised to apply WD-40 weekends ago. It was lucky Meredith was as relaxed about cleanliness and home maintenance as he was; in so many ways they did fit.

When he looked up, she was standing at the top of the stairs, frozen in place. The silence was loud, in the way pregnant pauses had of speaking volumes, and they stared for far too long. Finally, he moved to close the door behind him. She took a sharp breath behind him and let it out in a rush.

"I tried to call you," she said.

"I know." He was still wearing his wet socks. He pulled them off and shoved them in his pocket to avoid trailing the evidence of the woods all over the floors. "I'm sorry. I wasn't ready to talk."

"I was," she replied, simply. It wasn't exactly an accusation, but it was more than a pure fact. He stalled on the bottom step. She continued, "Not about the trial; we've already talked about that and I'm not sure what else I could say. Our social worker called after you decided you needed space, or whatever."

He blinked at her, suddenly realising he'd missed something important. "Oh?"

"Zola..." Meredith's hand glanced the banister, fingers curling around the wood as her mind searched for the woods. "She's asleep, for now."

"She's here?" he found himself wanting to smile, though the look on his wife's face told him it would have to be contrite. "Meredith."

"I know," she sighed out, again. "Your timing sucks. It's not your fault, exactly, but I'm not sure you're blameless either."

"How long?" he asked, covering the steps between them two at a time.

"Two days, three nights. It was the night you ... like I said, I tried to call you," she caught his sleeve as he moved past her and he turned to face her. "What?"

"Derek, I _just_got her down," she said, with a hint of a plea in her tone. He took her in properly, up close; she looked exhausted.

"Meredith." He reached out and curled his fingers around her hand. "If I had known..."

"It wouldn't have changed anything between us," she pointed out, astutely. "And I don't want to be one of those couples that stays together for the children." It had a hint of her capacity for dark humour about it. She was smiling at him wryly; there was no joy in it. "We've been doing fine. But since you're here, there's paperwork for you to sign."

"Sure." He wet his lips and his sentence halted on his tongue. "I," he wanted to say something to smooth over their ideological impasse as though it was a minor difference of opinion. It was an impossible task. He settled instead for the easier job of communicating Amelia's condition. "Actually I came back here to tell you something, and to pack. I have to go to LA. It's Amelia."

He watched her through a series barely perceptible quirks of her facial muscles that hinted at her true feelings. They were all familiar, by now. He knew she wouldn't be pleased at the prospect, but he also knew she'd understand. Her empathy, while sometimes the source of their most catastrophic frictions, was also one of the reasons he loved her. She did look visibly concerned. "What happened?"

"She's an addict Meredith." It was a deflection. He knew he shouldn't be ashamed of it, that it was, medically speaking, a disease. And he wasn't _ashamed_exactly, not at any failing of his sister's, maybe at his own inability to save her, to protect her. "Addison says they think it was an overdose. She was brought in last night, but she hasn't regained consciousness."

She softened completely at those words, stepped up to the landing so they were on equal footing and wrapped her arms around his waist. He was surprised by it, and felt affection flare, muting the echo of his own anger. Her hair smelled of lavender. He breathed her in. "Thank you," he murmured.

She swallowed and pulled herself from his arms, standing out of his reach. "I'd say that we would go with you, if you wanted, but I'm not sure Zola is cleared to fly yet."

He shook his head, "No, she's barely settled here as it is and it might be for nothing. She might be awake and fine by the time we get there. Mark's coming with me."

She nodded once, understanding. "Good."

Derek quirked his head at that, but didn't need to verbalise his question. She continued without prompting, "He's your person, like Cristina is mine. I know," she held up a hand, "You like to pretend that you still hate him a little bit, but you don't."

A wail from the next room drew their attention. She sighed as he started towards it and followed him through to their bedroom. Zola was kicking her feet in the portable crib, hands clutching at the fabric sides as she tried to pull herself into a standing position. Meredith reached out and unfurled her tiny fists. It was becoming second nature; she was learning to bury the panic, the never-ending fear of things beyond her control. She was also learning to ignore the reminders that the outcomes of Zola's surgery could be variable. One day at a time.

Derek watched her. She'd taken to it better than she'd anticipated, better than he'd anticipated if he was honest. It wasn't that he didn't think she would be a good mother; despite their fight and the words exchanged, he'd never meant that. She'd inferred, and in anger, he'd let her. It was just that he'd thought it would take her longer to overcome her reservations. Instead, she patted the baby's head and cooed softly. "Zola, this is Derek, your," she paused, "Dad." She picked up one of Zola's hands and waved it over her shoulder. "Say hello."

He reached out and let the baby clasp a fist around his finger. It wasn't quite the moment people taught you to expect; his world didn't lurch to shift, but he did feel it slowly moving towards something different, something better, solid, stable. He smiled. Zola blinked at him through her tears and smacked her gums together, lips quirking at the edges.

"There," Meredith was still making baby talk, "That's better." She flung a used scrap of fabric over her shoulder, wedging it beneath Zola's chin. As if in response, Zola blew a few spit bubbles and burrowed into the blanket. She spun to face him, patting Zola's back. "Well. What time are you leaving?"

"I'm meeting Mark at the airport as soon as I can. He has to wait for Callie to collect Sofia."

"Wait, doesn't he live across the hall?" Meredith braced the weight of the baby against her hip, leaning to one side, before turning and sinking onto the mattress. Zola kicked her feet out and extended her arms, stretching against her torso. He felt decidedly outside of the moment. That was probably what absence bought you. He ran a hand through his hair and turned to the closet. Surely ten years with Addison had taught him something, he thought; then again, maybe there are some things you can never learn, or un-learn.

"Yeah," he answered, rummaging through the chest of drawers and throwing T-shirts and socks haphazardly onto the floor. Meredith put Zola in the middle of the mattress and let her fist her hands into the comforter. She sat upright and threw out her arms, grabbing the pile of clothes and re-folding it an attempt to assist. He finished his thought, "But don't ask me how that arrangement works."

She was patting a pair of boxers flat against her lap when he turned around.

"Meredith," he felt like he was saying her name over and over again. "When I get back..."

"We'll need to talk," she supplied, immediately, "I know."

He nodded, briefly, and disappeared into the closet to fill a suit bag with dress shirts. He returned with a small carry-on bag and let her place her careful folding inside it while he showered.

The water was warm and much-needed; the evidence of his weekend in the woods sullied the white ceramic as it slipped towards the drain. The drumming soothed his muscles and the pace of his thoughts. Zola, they had Zola: the baby that he had wanted, that he had pushed for, that he had immediately seen as a way out.

He'd always thought the idea of having children to save a marriage was curious. Addison had been a loud proponent against the practice, having seen enough pregnant women and their partners fall apart around a traumatic pregnancy, and he'd listened to her decompress after many a trying day, long, pontificating speeches on the subject, and yet, he'd never really formed his own opinion. It did seem insidious, in some way, as though he would be using the daughter he was supposed to love in her own right as a band-aid or salve for his wounds.

At the same time, was that necessarily so wrong? The Alzheimer's trial had united them in a common purpose, a common goal, professionally and yes, a little personally, given Meredith's history with the disease. And it had been fundamental in showing them the way through the obstacles of their shared past, shedding old hurts, helping scars to fade. Was there any reason a child shouldn't be another way to turn the page on another chapter? They had started over before, more than once. Why not again? It certainly wouldn't mean they would love their daughter any less; if anything, they would love her more.

On the other hand, perhaps that was too great a burden for a toddler to carry. He was still in two minds about his ability to forgive. The willingness was certainly there, because he _ached_to be able to set it free. It hurt to be hurt by her; that was an experience of love he was familiar with. One thing was certain: the stakes were suddenly higher.

He yanked the faucet to cut the water and towelled off. The bedroom was empty and his luggage guarded the end of the bed, clothing neatly packed away.

He dressed quickly and followed the sound of laughter to the kitchen. Lexie was holding Zola on her lap, arms pinned to her side, while April made expressive faces, spooning yellow goop from a bowl into the toddler's mouth. She was exaggerating the motion of opening her mouth to get Zola to imitate her, in a comical impression of a fish. Behind them, across the counter, Meredith was making coffee.

They all paused when they heard his footsteps in the hall and he suddenly felt the uncomfortable scrutiny of three pairs of eyes.

"Good morning," he smiled with forced politeness.

April beamed back. Lexie remained guarded. She mumbled a response, but her eyes tracked him across the room. Her instinct to protect her family proved stronger than her tact.

Meredith pushed a coffee in a takeaway cup across the counter, through a pile of newspapers Jackson had left open before running to the hospital. He took it, grateful. "Mark just texted. He's bought us tickets on the next available flight from SeaTac," he said, apologetic. "I have to get going."

"Do you want me to drive you?"she asked, over the rim of her own steaming mug.

He shook his head. "I'll just park the car at the airport. That way you won't have to worry about co-ordinating if I have to fly back in a hurry. I imagine getting out of the house is more of a challenge now. Do you want me to sign the papers before I go?"

She inhaled sharply and shot a glance in the direction of Lexie and April, who were studiously pretending not to be listening. Zola banged her fists against the table, whipping her head around from face to face, blissfully unaware that any kind of communication was occurring.

"Why don't we wait?" Meredith answered at length. "I'm sure it'll be fine. I'll Janet this morning. And I can always have them couriered to LA if I have to."

"Ok." He edged towards the doorway, offering awkward goodbyes to the other occupants of the kitchen. He bent to take Zola from Lexie, bouncing her up and down a few times, eliciting giggles, before placing a kiss atop her head. That, at least, came naturally to him. "I'll be back soon," he told the baby. "I don't want to miss you."

Which wasn't to say that he wouldn't, although he was still adjusting to the idea of the adoption being finalised. He meant it quite literally; he didn't want to miss her, any of her milestones, her medical appointments, her life. If they were going to do this, he was committed to being present. He'd spent too much of his life absent. Meredith came over and stood at his shoulder, leaning over to smooth the baby's hair. He held her out, ready to pass her to her mother, but Meredith shook her head. "I'll walk you out," she said, her hand solid against his arm. Lexie reached up and resettled Zola on her knee.

When they reached the car, she let her hand trail across the body, standing back so he could open the door. Luggage stowed, he turned back to her.  
>"I'm sorry our... <em>my<em>timing has been so unfortunate lately," he offered, somewhat inadequately.

She curled the ends of her ponytail around her fingers. "I'm not mad Derek. No. Actually, I am mad. But I also understand."

"Thank you," he whispered, tugging at the elbows of her sweater until she took a step closer to him.

"This would be one of those things I was talking about, that isn't simple," she told him.

"Nothing with you ever is," he answered, bending to kiss her.

She let him. They leant back against the body of the car and he was reminded of a much earlier, simpler time when he had been first falling in love with her, when she'd tasted like tequila and reminded him of a better version of himself. This kiss was different; they were tempered by experience, and well-versed in the art. But there was a promise in it. He clung to that.


	4. Chapter Three

Author's Notes: Thank you to those of you who reviewed! I'm pleased you're enjoying the story thus far. And again, apologies for lack of updates. This chapter - Mark and Derek arrive in LA, there is a reunion of sorts, and Mark feels slightly nostalgic. Fun times all round.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Three.<strong>

Los Angeles was hot. It struck him, like the thought, the moment he stepped from the air-conditioned aircraft onto the aerobridge. The terminal's climate control didn't extend that far, and the humidity was immediate in its insistence. Mark peeled off the leather jacket that had become a second skin in Seattle. Beside him, Derek's mouth had set in a thin, flat line.

The flight had been mercifully without incident, and while they'd spoken briefly, once the news of Zola's adoption being finalised had been intimated, most of the journey was made in silence. It wasn't quite companionable, but it wasn't awkward either, more ... contemplative. They both had a lot to think about.

LAX was always a trial. Mark was unspeakably glad of the fact that they only had carry on.

Addison was perched against the hood of an unfamiliar car when they approached, luggage trundling behind them. She uncrossed her arms and raised one in a half-surprised wave. Derek stepped forward and hugged her. Mark took the opportunity to shove his hands in his pockets. He couldn't hug her in front of Derek. In fact, it was entirely possible he couldn't hug her at all. The old wound always surprised him when he saw her; they'd come so far past it, and he did consider her a friend, but there was something underscoring everything that had always been there and probably always would be. Lately it had been bothering him, Lexie and Addison, the women he'd loved and all the others he'd pursued with good intentions. He offered her a gruff, "Hey Red."

Derek was loading their luggage into the trunk. She let her shoulder bump against his. "Hey."

"How's LA treating you?"

"Really Mark? Small talk?" her eyes were narrowed, but she was smiling. That was something. Her face had been grim and her eyes sleep-weary moments before. The _at a time like this _was silent. He suspected she knew that her worry was premature, medically speaking.

He flashed her his patented flirtatious grin. "What's a nice girl like you doing in a parking lot like this?"

She smirked. "I can't for the life of me remember why I didn't make you take a cab."

"For a distraction probably." They fell into a serious moment. He reached into his pocket for his cell and began flipping through photos to break it. "Speaking of, want to see the results of your miracle fingers?"

She took the phone from him and shielded the screen from the sun. "Oh I forgot to ask about the baby. I'm sorry; I'm running near empty. Oh Mark, she's _beautiful_."

He could tell she meant it too. Somehow the praise from a woman who'd seen enough babies to know made his chest blossom with fatherly pride.

"Yeah," he said. "She is. Looks like her mother."

Addison nodded. "I can see that. But she looks like you too."

He reached out for her other hand and she nearly jerked away. As it was, she looked up, startled. He realized that she thought he was trying to hold her hand and plucked the car keys from it gingerly, looking apologetic. "Let me drive," he urged, quietly.

Her eyes flooded with realization, her expression softening. There was a hint of sadness in it though. Her mouth curved, fondly. "Charlotte will kill me," she said. "It's her car."

"I can keep a secret." He turned and nudged her hip with his fingers.

The touch sent a memory through her; she felt it shudder through to her extremities. She swallowed the hitch in her breathing. He'd always had this physiological effect on her, at least since the sex, but she was surprised by its continued presence after a long absence. The car unlocked with a snap behind them when he hit the central locking. She jumped.

Derek touched her shoulder as Mark opened the door. That physical contact was less provocative, bodily; her relationship with Derek had always been more about a meeting of minds than the mess of hands, mouths and limbs than it was with Mark. That seemed fitting somehow. The neurosurgeon and the plastics guy, each speaking to their specialty when they touched her. She gave him her best _don't worry, everything's going to be fine _face. "How're you holding up?"

"Hoping for the best," Derek nodded towards the passenger seat. "You take the front seat. We wouldn't want Mark to have free reign over the radio station."

He was already opening the back door. Mark started the car and began fiddling with the controls. She smirked. "True."

"You look tired Addison." Derek's hand curled around hers where she was gripping the car door. "There's been no change?"

"Charlotte said she'd stay with her." She shrugged, squeezing his fingers for the comfort of it. "She'd call if there was."

"Ugh," Mark groaned, turning up the air-conditioning until it blasted in his face. "This is a flashback and a half to the parts of college I haven't forgotten. You ex-love birds getting in or what?"

She grinned and hurried around on her heels to take her seat.

Mark was horrible at following directions. He always insisted he knew better, even though she was the local, and after one too many wrong turns she crossed her arms, huffed, and declared they would never make it. Derek was smirking at them from between the seats.

When they finally pulled into Charlotte's space at St Ambrose though, the mood shifted. Addison's cell chirped from her purse. She rummaged for it while Mark adjusted the seat back to where he'd found it.

"Charlotte says she's still not awake," she announced, "But they've moved her to the medical assessment unit for monitoring."

She was out of the car and across the black-and-white stripes of the pedestrian crossing before Derek had finished unloading their things, leaving them scrambling to catch up.

Charlotte was waiting when they reached Amelia's room. Addison performed the necessary introduction (Mark was already a familiar face), and they all exchanged the appropriate pleasantries. Derek adopted the one chair, beside Amelia's head and leant his elbows on his knees, his head resting against his clasped hands. Mark lingered in the doorway, as though unsure whether to stay or go. Charlotte took Addison by the elbow and led her into the hall, whispering so they couldn't be overheard.

"The prognosis is the same as it was two hours ago," she said, direct and clipped, much more like the old Charlotte than the newer, softer version Addison had seen the night before. "You should go home, get a shower and some sleep. Her brother's here; she won't be alone when she wakes up."

Addison nodded, mutely.

There was a logic in it that most people would agree with, but she'd been around medicine too long not to find hospitals comforting in a crisis. There was an order, a rhythm and flow, which she was familiar with. People were broken and then they got fixed. It was more than professional; the memory of the lighting and the waiting room chairs and the smell of surgical scrub on her father's fingers was one of her earlier ones. Perhaps it was true, that it was in the blood. Meredith Grey might agree with her.

"I don't have my car," she remembered. "And Mark still has your keys."

Charlotte waved her off. "Keep it. It's going to be a long day here. I won't need it until after five."

With that, and a brief squeeze of her elbow, Charlotte was gone, barrelling through the hospital halls like a tour de force, using work to distract her from her worry. Addison almost went after her and asked for a surgery or two. If Charlotte didn't know exactly how long she'd been awake, she would have.

The door to Amelia's room opened. The sound of it drew her attention. Mark stepped into the hall. "Hey," he greeted her, softly. "No problems?"

She shook her head. "Charlotte says we should go home. They'll call, as soon as there's any change."

"But you want to stay," he surmised.

"I want to _do _something, to distract myself."

He smirked.

"Not like that Mark." She narrowed her eyes.

"Well, don't take this the wrong way then, but let me take you home." He reached out and took her wrist where it was folded across her body, defensively. "Or come with me and help me find a hotel."

She shook her head, "Don't be ridiculous. I've got the space. You can stay with me. Both of you can."

''Are you sure?" he smiled, wryly. "Three of us in close quarters, might get awkward. Plus aren't you seeing Sam now? I don't think he'd like it all that much if your ex-husband and … well, _me_, were staying with you."

"I'm _seeing _Sam," she emphasised. "That doesn't mean he owns me. Besides, we're all friends. He'll get over it. If you stay somewhere else, I'll just end up taxiing you around. This is easier for everyone."

"Fine." Charlotte's keys were dangling from his hand. "Derek's going to stay."

"Give me a minute?" she asked, her arm pulling from his grasp and leaving her hand lingering on the door knob.

He fell back against the wall. "Sure."

When she pushed open the door, Derek didn't look up. She padded over to him, her flats lacking the authoritative slap of her heels against the hospital linoleum. Addison let her hand rest against his shoulder, "Derek?"

"No change," he reported.

She sighed. "I can see that. Mark was going to take me back to my place… to pick up my car and get changed."

"He mentioned that."

"Do you want anything?" she ventured, cautious. He was lost in his own thoughts.

He shook his head. "Actually." He checked his cell and reached for the bag at his feet, rummaging through it until he brandished the charger. "There, you can take it now."

"Expecting an important call?" She was forcibly making conversation, and she knew it, but somehow she felt that they should have more to say to each other after ten years of marriage. She wanted to talk to him about Amelia, about the last time, about this time, to give voice to her fears and to hear his. She felt like he was probably the only other person who would understand.

"Meredith," he explained. "We're… we were trying for a baby, but the fertility treatments didn't take so we've just adopted Zola." He ran a hand through his hair. "We're expecting news from the agency about the final paperwork."

"Congratulations," she intimated without the boisterousness the sentiment required. It was genuine, just blunted by their surroundings. Her babylust reared its ugly head; she felt the slightest hint of resentment. Adoption wasn't something she'd looked into yet, but she was, at least were children were concerned, a single woman who worked a forty hour week; she knew it wouldn't be easy. At least – and she felt horrible for being cheered by the fact, but she was – Meredith shared her fertility woes.

He looked up at her and she squeezed his shoulder.

"Thanks." He managed a smile. For a moment he looked like he might say more, but instead he nodded towards the door. "You should get going. I'll call you if she wakes up."

Addison hesitated, but curled her hand around the handle of his bag. "Sure. You and Mark can stay at the house if you want. He already made the polite protests, and I already refused them, so unless you have a real complaint…"

"No, no." He shook his head. "Thank you Addison."

He caught her hand. Her lips curved into a smile at the familiarity of the gesture. She had the impression he was talking about more than her spare room. "For what?"

"For looking after Amy ," he said. He sighed. "Why is it so hard to get back to where you were? She's my little sister, my family. I want to forgive her. I want to be her big brother. Why is that so hard?"

"Addiction," she began, but halted when she realised she was about to parrot the textbook on the subject they had read from in medical school. It was a standard line, one she had learned to deliver with precision and sympathy that sounded affected even when it was genuine.

OSCEs had a lot to answer for.

She rethought her wording, pulling her hand from his. "It's hard," she settled for, finally. "And I know you always want to give her tough love because otherwise you feel like you're condoning it; honestly, part of me wants to do the same thing. But maybe it's not the answer."

"Someone has to _not_forgive her," he answered, in a measured tone. She could hear the weight of his exhaustion behind the words. "Things can't just go back to normal until the next time she slips up."

"She was doing well Derek. I know you don't see it, because all you see is your kid sister, but she's _talented_. You must know that. Charlotte Ginsburg is a shrew, but she has an eye for talent. And UCLA was willing to give her a job at a moment's notice."

"You know what Addison? I know that. Why do you think I'm so hard on her? She's _smart_. And not like the rest of us are smart. She's just... she's barrelled through her entire life half-cocked and people still think she's brilliant. It's so hard to watch her throw all of that way."

"Maybe she needs a mentor." She lay her palm against the posterior wall of his chest, like she would to check tactile fremitus, and felt his answer rumble through her hand. "That can't be me, Addie. I love her too much to watch her make mistakes."

"Well maybe she needs a big brother too." She patted his shoulder and reached for his bag. "I should go; Mark's waiting."

He nodded her out, wordlessly. As she twisted the door handle, she tried to shake off their conversation and the atmosphere of the room, but Mark saw it on her face.

"Feeling nostalgic Red?" he commented, taking the bag from her hands and guiding her towards the exit with the ghost of a hand against her sleeve.

She gave him a disproving look, as such a reference to the past demanded, but she let her shoulder bump into his as they waited for the elevator. Some things, she was pleased to note, didn't change.

* * *

><p>After their companionable exchange, Mark drove her home in silence. She fingered the upholstery and tried to resist the urge to lean over and check his speed; he had never taken well to backseat driving, even in the form of the helpful suggestion <em>slow the fuck down<em> because highway patrol was behind them. _That _had been a fun incident. She inspected her nail beds before reaching out to adjust the radio.

It was all rumbling piano and an Adele song that was far too poignant.

Addison turned the volume down.

She couldn't help but steal a glance at Sam's driveway as they pulled into her own even though she knew he was probably still at the hospital, maybe even in surgery. Mark followed her gaze but chose not to comment. She was grateful. He tossed her Charlotte's keys over the roof of the car and busied himself with the luggage while she opened the front door.

She suspected he took longer than was strictly necessary so she could have a moment alone. For someone who had failed to understand her so often when they were together, he was incredibly attuned to her idiosyncrasies.

She poured a glass of water from the faucet and took a deep breath. Sam. She knew that was coming to a head, the question was _when_ not _if_. It had been clear in the pre-dawn that he didn't understand her decisions regarding the new practice but, as always, she had to wonder if there was more to it than that.

He had said he would _try_. Trying implied the possibility of failure. She hated the insecurity she was feeling. It was more befitting a twenty-something than a forty-something. She knew he loved her, in a perfect world. The question was, could he love her in the real one?

She set the glass down on the counter as Mark clattered into the room.

"Upstairs?" he asked, all business.

She moved to take Derek's suit bag, which was hanging over one arm. "Yeah. You've been here before."

"Didn't see much of the upstairs," he said, casually. Well, that was true; they'd stumbled into her bedroom and spent most of their time there.

She followed him up the stairs and paused at the end of the hall. "There's ... two rooms, Amelia was staying in one. I..." She leant against the doorframe of her bedroom. "I can't go back down there. Not yet."

He reached out to her before he had time to consider the action. She folded into his arms gratefully. The tears shook through her, everything catching up with her at once - the on and off again with Sam and his continued distance, her mother's death, Pete's heart attack, the practice dissolving, the threat of a malpractice suit hanging over her, and now, Amelia's condition. She sniffed, realising his shirt was wet beneath her cheeks. He was rubbing the curve of her back in slow circles.

"Shh," he huffed against her hair, gravel in his tone. "She's going to be all right Red."

"You don't know that." She realised her fists were curled into his shirt, warping the fabric. She released it and him, and stepped backward, wiping at her cheeks. "I'm going to shower."

He nodded. "I'll fix up the room."

She gave him a small, appreciative smile. "Thank God Derek thought to bring you," she remarked. "You always keep your head about you at times like this."

He shook his head at that. "You saw me with Sofia."

"I'm told it's different," she said, "When it's your child."

With that, she disappeared into the bathroom and he shifted their luggage from the hallway into the spare room that wasn't littered with Amelia's things. The bed was already made, so when he'd inspected the view the room afforded of the ocean, he ventured across the hall.

The smell hit him first. Vomit. Her sheets were stained with it. He picked his way through the wreckage like a detective at a crime scene; she always had been messy. He felt as though her whole life was on display for him to piece together.

They all came with memories.

A pair of discarded jeans with a pack of cigarettes in the back pocket reminded him of when he caught her smoking outside in the frigid winter on Christmas break. She'd been fourteen; he should have lectured. Instead he'd shared a cigarette with her, huddled together on the snow-covered porch.

One of Addison's old college sweatshirts was hanging off the end of the bed frame precariously. He fingered the fabric absently. That brought to mind a whole slew of memories, of Addison wearing it and peeling it off, at twenty-one, and thirty-one and forty-one, of his nose pressed into the curve of her neck, his lips tasting her shoulder, of teasing her with the latest from anatomy lectures, whispering the boundaries of the cervical triangles into her skin. He dropped the shirt to the floor. There was one image of Amelia wearing it. It had been dark and he'd barely glanced at her before diving under the duvet, just as she'd swiftly exited on sock feet when she realised what was happening. Addison had gone after her. He'd seen them talking in the kitchen, but he had left without a word. It would have forced words on them, and he knew the proper labels weren't pretty; adultery, betrayal, completely unfair to Derek, just about sex. It was that last one he couldn't stand to hear, more than the rest. He loved her enough to be hurt by it and this way, they could pretend, at least for a little bit longer; she could pretend nothing was amiss and he could pretend that when he caught that hint of _something_in her gaze that it was real.

(In hindsight, he'd have done everything differently.)

He kicked away a lacy scrap of underwear. That evoked Amelia in Seattle, riding on a high from talking to Derek, pressing him up against the door of the supply closet and all-but-clambering up his body. He curled his fingers into a fist, once again regretting his tendency to say yes when the more prudent answer would be no. He was definitely old enough to know better, but it was an old habit and after Lexie, he wasn't sure there was any reason to break it. And she'd been more than enthusiastic.

A bottle from the hospital pharmacy was open on the dresser. Half-full, he noted, after picking his way over to the bed, so she probably wasn't trying to kill herself. Shoes and clothes and God knew what else covered every available inch of Addison's wooden floors. The wardrobe in the corner was open and overflowing. The curtains were drawn. He opened them and wrestled with the window. The salty air was a welcome change from the stifling room. Mark turned, clearing a path through Amelia's mess with his foot and stripped the bed.

He was laundering the sheets when Addison appeared, towelling off her hair.

"I was wondering where you'd got to," she said, from the top of the stairs. The laundry was a make-shift set up in her garage. He shrugged and leant back against the machine which was beginning it's spin cycle. "Thought I'd tidy up a bit for you."

"Derek called." She was busy gathering her hair into a messy top knot. "She's awake, and fighting. She has to have a psyche consult before they'll discharge her, but Derek wants them to move her to the drug and alcohol unit." She ran a hand over hair, tactilely inspecting her handiwork. "So you know what that means."

He was stuck between a grin and a sigh. "Sibling love, at its finest."

"We should get back before they kill each other." She nodded towards her car. "You take mine, I'll take Charlotte's."

"Sure." He held out his hands and she lobbed him the keys. "But Red?"

She turned back, her lips quirked upwards in silent question.

"It's a race." He grinned, mischievously, before sliding into her driver's seat and revving the engine.

She rolled her eyes at him and muttered under her breath, "Mark Sloan, you are such a child."

He wound down the window and pouted at her. "I forgot. You've parked me in."

She raised an eyebrow and smiled in disinterested triumph.


	5. Chapter Four

Author's Notes: for M, who poked.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Four<strong>

When she arrived at the hospital, she was pleased to note that her car was still in one piece. He'd parked in Charlotte's spot though, which meant she'd driven in circles for nearly twenty minutes looking for a space. By the time she reached Amelia's room, she was verging on irate. Mark was waiting for her in the hall, keys dangling from his fingers and arms folded. He looked amused by the noise that was coming from behind the door.

"I wouldn't go in there if I was you," he said when she put one hand on the door knob beside his hip and clucked her tongue impatiently, signalling for him to move out of the way.

"Why not?" she pursed her lips.

"They've been going at it for at least fifteen minutes. Mrs Shepherd cancelled her trip when Derek told her Amy was awake. There's a lot of family drama happening right about now."

"You didn't think to _diffuse _the situation?" she huffed, impatient.

"I tried," he shrugged, "And I've got the battle scars to prove it. But by all means, be my guest," he stepped away from the door, hands shoved deep in his pockets. "I'm going to buy us all coffee. You want the usual?"

She shook her head, "Skim macchiato."

"Red," he was mock-shocked. "You've changed," he accused.

"The coffee is different down here," she shrugged as she pushed the door open, effectively ending the discussion.

Mark thought that maybe she was right; maybe she was talking about more than just coffee.

When Addison braved the threshold, Amelia was sitting up in the bed, fiddling with the sleeve of her hospital gown. The siblings were both staring at the intruder, mouths open mid-argument, silenced by her interruption.

"Hey Addison." Derek was the first to speak.

She smiled in his direction, distractedly."You're awake," she said to Amelia.

"Thanks to you, or so I'm told." It was begrudgingly grateful. Amelia shot a glare at her brother, "Derek, could you give us a minute?"

He held up his hands and gave Addison a bewildered look, "Sure."

"Mark's gone to get coffee," Addison informed him. "Starbucks is across the street."

He nodded, "See you in twenty."

She took the seat he had vacated and pulled it closer to the bed. "How are you feeling?" she began, gently.

Amelia shrugged. "Lucky, I guess. I'm so sorry Addison. I ... you've been so good to me, letting me stay with you, I didn't mean to repay you like that. It was stupid of me."

"Why didn't you tell me what was going on?" Addison folded her hands in her lap and looked up, searching Amelia's face for a clue.

She let her head drift to one side, "I don't know. I really don't. I wasn't ready to get better. Had to make things worse for myself." Amelia folded her arms across her body, protecting herself and hugging her own elbows. "As usual."

"Charlotte told me she pulled your privileges."

"Yeah, well," she was scowling. "That was completely unnecessary. I was _fine_."

"You were drinking and performing surgery."

"I got called in," she defended, running a hand through her hair and making a face at the tangles in it, "I wasn't on call. They just needed someone. And it was three beers, tops."

"I won't lecture you," Addison sighed. "I get the feeling Derek'll do enough of that for both of us. Besides, you're an adult and you've heard it all before. If you want to throw your career away, there's nothing anyone can do to stop you. But you have to know, you're not fine. It's not a _fine_Friday night activity to down a fifth of Scotch and half a bottle of pain pills."

"That was an accident," she insisted. "And it won't happen again."

"The hell it won't. Derek's probably down at the psyche ward now seeing if they can put you on involuntary hold."

"He can't do that."

"If you don't agree to some kind of substance abuse counselling, Charlotte won't let them sign off on your release," Addison said. "Hell, would you? You don't exactly have a great track record."

"Don't remind me." Amelia unfurled her hand and lay them on her thighs above the blanket. "Lord knows Derek already has, five times over. There's always AMA though." She grinned with false cheerfulness but it barely lasted. "Hey, did you bring me any real clothes? This gown is itching and not that I'm not proud of it, but I'd really prefer if all of you _didn't _see my ass."

Addison pulled the bag she had packed before leaving into range and pulled it into her lap. "I packed you a change of clothes. Your old ones are around, somewhere, but I'm guessing they could use a wash."

"Speaking of -" Amelia held up the ends of her hair and inspected them. " - so could I."

"Shampoo and soap in the bag as well."

"Thanks. You're a lifesaver." She unhooked her IV and swung her legs out of bed.

"What are they giving you through that?" Addison stood and began inspected the bag.

"Just fluids." Amelia was already halfway across the room, dragging the bag of her things behind her and silenced the overly concerned sentence on the tip of Addison's tongue with a single, pointed look. "It'll keep Addison."

The door to the bathroom slammed closed. Amelia leant against it, closed her eyes and pulled in a deep breath. After a moment's pause, she felt slightly more in control. Her mind was still turning, processing all the information she had been bombarded with upon waking in a completely different locale to where she had passed out. She wasn't a stranger to blacking out, a long substance use history saw to that. She'd even woken up in a hospital bed once or twice before with little idea how she'd ended up there, but it was never a calming experience. It didn't appear to get easier with practice, either.

At least this time, she would have thought she could count on waking up alone. She hadn't spoken to her mother or the rest of her family outside of the requisite holiday and birthday phone calls since she'd finished her residency at Johns Hopkins with a stint in rehab. Addison was a good friend when her life was going well, but she was self-absorbed the moment she started to have problems of her own. And she had been sure she'd completely alienated the one person who might actually understand when she refused to go to a meeting with Charlotte after her privileges had been revoked. The invitation hadn't been extended again.

And yet, they were all here, Mark Sloan too. It was like a sick version of _This Is Your Life_. She knew they meant well, but she was disorientated, shell-shocked, and fragile. She wasn't sure she could handle Addison's hovering, Derek's lectures and Charlotte's strange mix of empathy and reproach. And the last time she'd seen Mark he was pulling up his pants, so there was that.

She ran a hand over her face and realised she was standing in the dark. She groped for the light switch and began to detangle herself from the hospital gown.

A shower.

She was in the bathroom to shower. She couldn't be too long either, otherwise Addison would probably burst right in out of concern.

She took a step forward, bracing herself on the hand rail, and groped for the faucet. She set it to appropriate scalding and stood beneath the spray, still wearing her underwear. She leant her weight into one hand, pressing it into the slippery tiles, beaded with condensation. The water turned her hair slick, plastering it to her face at the corners of her mouth. She closed her eyes and tilted her toward the spray. The tears were silent, instantly washed away, and one, single, shaky breath was the only evidence that she was crying at all. She couldn't exactly say what they were for - for herself, for the situation, for her family, for the patient that had died on the table beneath her hands less than a week ago - but she felt like a lost child and drew her arms around her naked torso, hugged her elbows close and sank to the floor, letting the water beat down against her body until it started to run lukewarm.

She grasped for the shampoo then, and ran it through her hair hurriedly. She washed quickly and clumsily, and when she was done, she couldn't say exactly what order she'd done it in. Her mind was foggy.

When she had dressed herself and pushed her wet hair off her face with one hand, towelling it off vigorously, she caught her own reflection in the mirror. She stared, squared her jaw and took a deep breath. Time to get it together, she thought at her reflection. She forced a smile, rummaged in the small bag for the comb Addison had packed and emerged from the bathroom, running it through the ends of her hair, which were curling from the moisture.

Addison was perched on the edge of the bed, smoothing over the sheets with her hand. She looked up, surprised out of her ruminations, and gave Amelia an encouraging look. It wasn't quite pity, but it still made her bristle, inwardly. It felt like pins and needles on her skin. Her smile faded almost completely. "Don't look so understanding Addison, we both know you're completely bewildered by it. You don't have to pretend."

Suitably chastened, Addison cast her eyes to the floor, following Amelia's wet footsteps. The bed sank under her weight.

"Thanks again for the clothes," Amelia said, feeling chastened herself. She hadn't meant to be harsh. It had bubbled up and out of her before she'd had a chance to stop it. She wet her lips and changed the subject. "I'm completely parched, and a little hungry. Any chance there's something remotely edible in the vicinity?"

"I'll let Mark and Derek know to pick something up," Addison responded, her tone and features schooled. Her fingers flew over the keypad of her cell in precise taps.

Amelia observed her carefully for a second before giving up. She reached out and unwound the IV line from where Addison had fastened it to the stand. Adjusting the flow, she waiting until it was dripping before reattaching it to her catheter. Her range of movement now restricted, she swung her legs up onto the bed and pulled the covers up to her middle. Twisting the identification tag on her wrist around, she nudged Addison with her foot. "How did you manage to get my _brother _down here?" she tried for a joke.

Addison wasn't in the mood for jokes, apparently. She tossed her cell back into her handbag and fixed Amelia with a humourless look. "I called and told him about your condition."

Swallowing back the sick feeling that rose in the back of her throat, Amelia said nothing. She leant back against the pillows, fidgeting, and tried not to focus on the anxiety threatening to wear her act down at the edges. She needed them to think she was fine, that was how she coped. She couldn't be placating them _and_holding herself together. She bit into her lip.

Addison didn't move from the bed, but didn't say anything more. She started flipping through a newsletter sent out by the College of Obstetricians and Gynaecologists, leaving Amelia to sort through the clutter in her thoughts.

By the time Mark and Derek returned with coffee and breakfast, Amelia was smiling brightly again, determined to pretend nothing was amiss. Mark tossed her the paper bag from the doorway. Her hands bolted upward, reflexively to catch it. He was grinning at her. Finally, someone with their kid gloves off. She tore into the pastry with enthusiasm. Derek lingered in the doorway for a minute and Addison twisted around to observe him. They were communicating with their eyes and a series of facial expressions, the meaning of which was a mystery to anyone who hadn't spent ten years married to them. Amelia turned her attention back to Mark, who was pulling up a chair beside the bed with one hand.

"You didn't get me a coffee," she noticed, suddenly.

"Caffeine too is a drug, according to the neurosurgeon in our midst. But there's an orange juice around somewhere," he searched his pockets and pulled it out, sitting it on the tray beside the bed. "Sorry."

"_Ugh_," Amelia made her displeasure known. "It's ok. Thank you."

"How're you feeling?" he leant back in the chair and crossed on leg over his knee.

"About how you might expect," she shrugged, sipping the orange juice. "Been better, been worse. Right now, if everyone would just stop worrying, I'm sure that I'm fine."

Mark looked dubious, but didn't contradict her. He was fast becoming Amelia's favourite person in the room, if not the whole world. She started chatting amiably about sports scores, a subject that she knew from experience was guaranteed to have Mark Sloan going for hours.

Behind them, Derek finally stepped across the threshold and pulled the door closed behind him, balancing two coffees in the to-go tray with his other hand. He offered the correct cup to Addison with an outstretched hands. Their fingers glanced. She stared at their hands, then drew the cup to her mouth before meeting his eyes again. "Typical Amelia," Addison murmured quietly, so only Derek could hear.

He nodded once and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I don't know what to do Addie."

Addison shrugged. "She's an adult."

He stood back and leant against the wall, silent until his coffee was finished. After he crumpled the paper cup and threw it in the trash beside the door, he got a businesslike edge to him. He tapped Amelia's foot. She looked over at him. "Thanks for breakfast big brother."

He approached the head of the bed and pulled a light from his pocket, "Come on. Let me take a look at you."

Amelia swatted the light away as he began trying to examine her pupillary reflex. It was his standard opening for a full neurological exam. Addison and Mark had watched him practice for boards so long that they knew his spiel by heart. He didn't use it on his sister though, just invaded her personal space until she crossed her arms and made a face, "I'm a doctor Derek, and believe me when I say I'm fine. My _actual _doctor has already checked me over."

"He's not a neurosurgeon," Derek countered.

"I overdosed on pain meds Derek," she said. The room went silent when she said it. In the pause that followed, Addison could hear the heart monitors blipping from the room next door. "So unless there's some underlying condition, I doubt that I need a neurosurgeon."

"You were out for a long time," he defended, "I just want to make sure they didn't miss anything."

"And you've already done it once when you got here, and you watched them do it properly when you came in. So you know that I'm fine. I'm beginning to think that you don't _like _it that I'm fine, but I am."

"You're not fine Amy," he relented with the flashlight, crossing his arms in a mirror of her stance. Addison smirked at the same time Mark did. They shared a knowing glance; sometimes, the Shepherds could be so _related_.

"If you were," Derek continued, "You wouldn't be here."

"Well I suppose you're right about that," Amelia conceded. "Speaking of being here, when are they turfing me out to free up this bed? My vitals are stable, there's no lasting damage. I want to go home."

"Charlotte's pulled a few strings," Addison avoided answering the question. Charlotte had also been fairly adamant that Amelia shouldn't be discharged, at least not until someone from the addiction medicine ward had come down to do a questionnaire. The hospital was participating in a trial of drug and alcohol screening measures for all patients that came through the ED. If substance abuse was red-flagged, a follow up with the drug and alcohol team was recommended; in this case it was mandated, at least according to Charlotte King.

"Tell me something I like Addison," Amelia warned.

"They want you to stay for a while," Addison hedged. "Not here. Down in drug and alcohol."

"They want me to go to rehab," Amelia threw up her hands. "Go figure. Sure. Ok. I'll go to meetings. I can do that as an outpatient."

Derek took a deep breath and looked around the room, gauging the level of support her could expect from his companions. "They... I..._we_all think it would be best for you if you stayed in in-patient, at least for a week."

"Derek I work here, well, _worked_here. This is LA. Rehabs must be like McDonalds' here. Can't I check myself into one of those fancy private clinics with a back entrance for their celebrity clients? If you're going to guilt me into therapy, at least let me do it while making fun of reality TV starlets."

"Charlotte says the program here is good," Addison interjected, quietly.

Everyone was studiously refusing to say it, but Amelia heard it anyway. They didn't want her to leave the hospital because they didn't really believe she _would_ check herself into another rehab. Her teeth sunk into her lip. Maybe they knew her too well. _And yet, not well enough_, she thought, _to know that what I really need is my own bed and good night's sleep and maybe to actually make it to a meeting_. She nearly snorted at herself. _Yeah right, or maybe they should have left me in respiratory failure_.

There was of course, always the path of least resistance. She didn't have the energy to fight all three of them. With a begrudging sigh she shrugged. "Fine."

Derek and Addison looked relieved. She looked over at Mark. As usual, he was impossible to read.

The paperwork was inefficient as always. She had to be signed out of the emergency department and re-admitted to the drug and alcohol unit, who handled their admissions separately to the rest of the hospital due to the residential nature of the program. Derek, Addison and Mark had left for lunch, promising to return with something resembling real food and the nurse who was meant to remove her catheter was taking _forever_. In the end, she ripped it from her arm one-handed. It approximated the correct technique, probably as well as the nurse (who looked far too young or Amelia was getting old).

After the paperwork was done, she was handed a pink garbage bagged marked with her name containing the clothes she'd been brought in wearing. It still smelled vaguely of vomit. She deposited it into the trash can in the hallway without thinking twice. The small bag of things Addison had brought her was draped over her shoulder. She hesitated in the waiting room in the emergency department, wondering whether she should wait for them there or down in drug and alcohol. Part of her still was screaming at her that now was her chance, that she could walk out the double doors, past the ambulance bay to freedom without looking back. Something kept her shoes stuck to the linoleum though. Derek had come from Seattle, for her. And she'd never seen Addison look so worried. Even Mark Sloan was concerned. He hid it better than the others

Her mother had phoned that morning, disproportionately vexed and clucky as usual. She'd had to _beg_her not to get on the first flight. There were many things she could handle, her mother fussing by her bedside was not one. She wasn't seven years old, though sometimes she wondered if she had aged a day in her mother's eyes. Their relationship was strained at the best of times, with an entire continent between them. In the same room, it was liable to fissure irreparably.

Still, maybe she did have something approximating a family that cared after all.

Mark returned ahead of the others, without offering an explanation as to why. "You're still here," he sounded half-surprised.

"Where would I go?" she shrugged, moving the bag from the arm that had borne the catheter to the other shoulder. She flexed her fingers, rubbing at the injection site. It was bruising more than it should have, such was the joy of being cannulated in an emergency.

"Oh," he gave her a knowing smile. "I don't know. Just thought you might have done a runner."

"Thought about it," she admitted, shoving her hands deep into the pocket of her hoodie. "But I decided I wouldn't get very far without a wallet or my keys or cell or a car."

"Tactical move," he leant back against the wall beside her and handed her a paper bag containing a burger and fries. He held the soda for her as she shovelled fries into her mouth.

"Thanks," she said, with her mouth half-full.

He grinned at her shocking manners.

The silence wasn't quite comfortable, but it wasn't awkward either. It was punctuated by her chewing.

Derek and Addison appeared in short order with an orderly from the inpatient rehab. Apparently they'd been sorting out paperwork. She sucked the straw protruding from the paper cup into her mouth and regarded them with measured disdain. She wasn't sure exactly how she felt about being babied so blatantly. There were forms to sign, so, reluctantly, she deposited the rest of the burger into the paper bag and licked her fingers. Getting discharged from hospital had taken over an hour. Voluntarily signing herself into in-patient care was, by contrast, all too quick.

The orderly took the paperwork and beckoned for her to follow. "Say goodbye up here," he instructed. "You've got your intake interview and then group therapy this afternoon, no visitors."

She scowled. Group therapy. She considered herself an old hand at rehab. Sharing and caring circle, as she had cynical dubbed it, was not the highlight of an otherwise miserable day. In fact, in patient never really had any highlights. Sometimes you met someone with an interesting story to tell - a run-in with the law, a bizarre livelihood - but for the most part, she found recovering addicts depressing.

Derek hugged her before she'd had a chance to hide her displeasure. It was crushing. He spoke in her ear, "You'll be fine."

She mumbled into his shoulder. "Sure I will, in about a week when they set me free."

He was frowning when he released her, his hand still resting on her shoulder, "Try to have an open mind. A good attitude always helps."

She gave him a wry smile. "And when have you ever known me to have a good attitude?"

"Might be part of the problem," he squeezed her shoulder, then stepped back to let Addison hug her.

"I snuck your cell into the bag," she said, too quietly to be overheard. "Maybe don't call, but text if you need to."

That brightened her mood considerably, "Thank you."

Mark didn't say a proper goodbye. The three of them stepped back to watch her go, and she caught his eye before she turned around. It was wordless, but she thought that maybe he'd said it best of them all. She thought that maybe he understood.

* * *

><p>The ride home had been laboured with a vacuous silence. Addison was exhausted. Mumbling excuses, she ascended the stairs and fell onto her bed. When Mark followed, deciding the only way to effectively get out of his head would be to run until he couldn't think anymore, he found her snoring with her shoes still on. Smirking, he removed them and delicately placed them next to each other on the closet floor (Addison was particular about many things, but nothing more so than her shoes). He unfurled a throw that was folded over a chair in the corner and covered her with it. She mumbled her incoherent thanks as her did.<p>

Derek was staring out over the Pacific when he had changed. He yawned, and it was contagious.

"We should book a return flight," he said.

"You don't want to stay the week, until she's out?"

He shrugged. "Do you?"

"Well, Richard cleared your schedule and mine's been flexible since Sofia was born. Besides, it's a hell of a view."

He smiled. "Somehow I think that with the three of us, plus Sam, this house would feel a lot smaller by the end of a week."

"You might be right," Mark popped one ear bud in. "Sure you don't want to join me?"

"Nah," Derek shook his head. "You're insufferable to run with. Always so chatty until the penultimate mile, when you're gasping and wheezing so badly I'm almost worried for you."

"Hey at least I _can _keep up a conversation. Your ability to vocalise is gone as soon as you pick it up to a decent pace."

"Put your money where your mouth is gramps," Derek leant back and rested his sock feet on Addison's outdoor table. Mark quirked an eyebrow. "You know she'll kill you if she catches you at that."

"I live on the edge," he answered.

"See you in a bit."

"Sure."

'A bit' turned out to mean an hour and a half. He'd ended up lost in thought, about Sofia, about Lexie, about Addison, about his inability to form a successful attachment to a woman, and when it had got just a little too self-pitying, he realised he'd covered a lot more distance than he'd intended. And that he'd lost track of how to get back to the house at least a few miles back. He'd found his way to the beach front and walked back along the sand. Leaving his trainers upturned on the deck to avoid trailing sand all over Addison's carpet, he pushed open the door to find Derek dozing in front of ESPN.

He turned up the volume a little bit to announce his presence.

* * *

><p>By the time Addison woke up, the sun had set. She was completely disorientated. Shaking off sleep, she finally placed the noises downstairs - Derek and Mark - and reached for her cell to check the time. Eight forty five. No missed calls or texts from Amelia.<p>

_Or Sam_, her brain reminded her. She scowled at herself. There wasn't anything to worry about. She'd texted him to let him know she would have house guests. He probably knew she'd have a full house and didn't want to bother her... or sit down to an awkward meal with her ex-husband and her ex-boyfriend.

He'd never gotten along with Mark. They'd run in completely different circles in medical school, apart from the obvious six-degrees-of-Kevin-Bacon connection, and could always be counted upon to have a disagreement of some kind at any party they were mutually invited to.

_Maybe it's for the best_, she thought, remembering several quite spectacular differences of opinion. She did text him again though, the little chat bubbles on the screen of her cell reminding her that he hadn't responded to her last four messages. She felt a little like she was harassing him.

The bathroom light made her squint, and her reflection left far too much to be desired, so she settled for swilling some water to wash the sleep from her mouth and plumping her hair with her fingers resignedly. There was no rescuing it. She reached for the throw as she passed the bed and wrapped it around her shoulders.

Downstairs, the smell of Chinese greeted her, along with the turned backs of Mark and Derek as they puzzled over her cupboards. She grinned. "Plates are beside the stove."

They both whirled around to face her, looking the slightest bit guilty. "It was late, we were hungry, we ordered food," Mark told her. "Sorry. We didn't want to wake you."

She inspected the take-out bag and hummed in approval, "No, no, it's fine. I'm starving."

Dinner was a lazy affair - take-out served on china plates had always been Addison's idea of a home-cooked meal - and despite the late hour, it was still pleasant on the deck. She retrieved a bottle of wine from the cupboard and followed them out, balancing three glasses between her fingers. They talked about nothing of consequence, a brief chat about the future of OGW and a seemingly endless fight between Mark and Derek over the last egg roll. Finally, she prised it from between them with her chopsticks and ate it. They stopped midsentence and stared.

She was unapologetic.

Her fingers kept straying to her cell in her pocket, waiting to hear from Sam, but it remained silent. His lights were off, so his whereabouts remained a mystery.

Eventually, the talk turned to the children - Mark was still in that insufferable phase new parents go through where Sofia was the centre of his world and every amazing thing she did needed to be shared (thankfully, for Addison, it was still novel), and when prodded, Derek was more than happy to talk about Zola. When she casually mentioned her own plans to have a child, he was a font of information on the adoption process. They chatted over the empty plates until a call from Callie sent Mark wandering down to the shore.

Rising to clear the table, she looked after him and shook her head at his retreating back. "Mark Sloan," she mused, "Baby crazy. I never thought I'd live to see the day."

"I think you were the one to wake that dragon," Derek teased, softly. She looked up in surprise, the dish in her hand clattering onto the stack haphazardly. She reached out to steady it. "He told you," she surmised. "Well I suppose it's moot now... You've got Meredith and Zola. He's got Sofia. And two co-parents. What I wouldn't give to see that in action."

He pulled open the door for her and they began stacking the dishes in the kitchen.

"I'm still not entirely sure how it works," Derek admitted. "I think they work and sleep on rotating shifts."

"Handy," Addison commented, pulling the dishwasher shut. Derek leaned back against the countertop as she filled the sink with water to wash the wineglasses. They'd decided after the first bottle of red that it wouldn't be wise to open another one. She could feel his eyes on her as she dunked each glass into the hot water. Finally, she let the last one sink to the bottom and turned to face him, her hands covered in soap suds where she'd pulled them from the water. "You're thinking very loudly."

He smiled. "Sorry."

She dried her hands on a dishcloth, "What about?"

"Sam really doesn't want any more kids?" he asked, but she didn't take it as prying. It was just a strange lead in to another conversation, one she was more amenable to.

"So he says," she said, with half a shrug. "But I do. And so, we'll make it work."

"You think you can really do that?" he wondered. "When two people are so different?"

"Opposites attract?" she offered him a platitude. "And we're not that different, we just want different things. Unless you're not really talking about Sam and I."

He laughed, once, a brief burst of something else disguised as amusement. "You and Sam Bennett. If you told me when we were twenty, I would have laughed at you."

She smirked. "You and me both."

"Why do you think we never had children?" he asked, abruptly. This was always what he wanted to ask her, she knew. It wasn't something they'd discussed at length. So many of the mysteries of their failed marriage had been left unexamined. She wondered if they could ever really do it again with other people before they overturned them all. He evidently didn't have the same concerns. Or maybe he did, maybe that was why he was asking.

"The timing wasn't right," she told him, certain of her answer. "I wasn't ready."

"I was," he answered.

"I know Derek," she pushed a stray sweep of hair behind her ears. "But," she paused to order her thoughts. "You know we couldn't have, the first time. We had twelve months of school left and after that, we both wanted to be surgeons. And apparently biology agreed with me," she joked without humour, holding out her open palm as she said it. "When we were old enough, and secure enough professionally, I just wasn't ready to risk that again, especially after the genetic screening tests."

"It was a one in four chance Addison," he tapped his fingers against her counter, "Seventy-five percent chance of a normal, healthy child."

"I know how it works Derek. Hell, I know parts of the coding region of the _CFTR_gene like the back of my hand. But two years of watching those children - with their medically regimented lives, nebulizers and physio and PEP devices, all to fight a losing battle to keep their lungs working - was more than enough. I couldn't do that to a child. And now, it seems I'll never have to."

He gave her a brief, empathetic look. "Meredith asked me once, if I thought things would have been different if we'd had children. I've wondered about it ever since."

She lifted a shoulder again in a half-gesture. "Maybe we would have tried harder. I don't know if that would have been a solution, or if we just would have denied ourselves what we truly wanted for the sake of our children. It doesn't matter. We're both happy now, right?"

He was saved from answering the question by the sharp trill of his cell. He pulled it from his pocket and mouthed "Meredith" at her, moving past Mark, who'd wrapped up his own call, to take it outside on the deck. Addison turned back to the washing up but Mark came up beside her and nudged her with his hip. "Let me."

She stared down at his body, crowding hers, their elbows aligned and their forearms brushing. She pulled her arm away and relented. "Fine. Don't break any like the last time."

"That was only because _you_were trying to help," he defended.

"How's Sofia?" she pushed herself up onto the counter, swinging her legs over the edge as he washed and rinsed the last of the washing up. There hadn't been much to do.

He smirked, taking her in, amused by the picture she made. "LA has been good for you," he decided. "You never would have sat on your kitchen counter in New York."

She raised an eyebrow, distinctly remembering a time that she _had_. He followed her train of thought and gave her a lecherous grin. "Sofia is good," he answered her earlier question before his mind got away from him. Since the baby, he hadn't had a lot of time for sex or dating. And he had a pulse; it had been a few weeks at least: the tension, it built.

"Callie always lets me talk to her, but it's more of a one way conversation at this point. She's developing normally," he added, catching the hint of the question poised on her tongue. "But her corrected age is still only two months."

Addison smiled. She'd been doing the calculation in her head. "I'm glad Mark. Really."

"You were worried there might be permanent damage," he realised. "You never said anything."

"33 weeks isn't so early that I'd be worried about neurological development, normally," she told him. "But with the trauma... I couldn't have been sure. But I didn't want to worry you or Callie. I was being paranoid, probably, because it was your daughter."

"Thank you," he reached out and squeezed her knee with his wet hand. She felt the moisture sink through the fabric. She reached up and covered it with her own. "Mark, I'd have done it for anyone. It's my job."

"I know. But I'm especially glad it was you to do it for me, for _us_. You spent all those years insisting you were the best," he teased, pulling his hand free to begin towelling the wine glasses. "Guess I started to believe you."

She grinned.

Outside, Derek was out of earshot, but his voice carried enough that they could tell the nature, if not the content, of his conversation with Meredith. When he raised his voice, Addison twisted around to study him. He was pacing the length of her deck. He looked frustrated, and exhausted by the feeling. Mark followed her gaze, studying her reaction and putting two and two together. "He didn't tell you."

"Tell me what?" she turned away and searched his face for clues.

"I just assumed that was what you were talking about so seriously in here."

She shuffled down off the counter and reached for the kettle. "No. Do you want tea?"

He could tell she was deflecting, but let her brush it off. She'd tell him in her own time, if she wanted to. Otherwise, he could stand to let it be their business. "Sure. Derek didn't tell you about the clinical trial."

"No, he did. We've talked about it before... when I was in Seattle with Archer. He said they'd mastered the procedure and the initial results looked promising, but they hadn't done any proper data analysis yet. He was just starting to interview for a statistician."

"Then you're behind. They've shut down the trial," Mark brought her up to speed. "There's the threat of an investigation by the FDA and if that happens, we'll probably lose what's left of our credibility as a hospital, not to mention the work that's already done that will be lost. Adele Webber," he explained, pre-empting her next question. "Grey noticed a few months ago that Adele was exhibiting symptoms of Alzheimer's. They got her into the trial, but the drug and the placebo allocations are at random. Grey fixed it so Adele would get the drug."

Addison's face contorted with each new bit of information. When he was done, she didn't say anything, mulling over it all. "How is she?" she asked, finally. "Adele I mean. How is she?"

"I'm not sure. It could be too early to tell."

"I should call Richard," she murmured. "He's been so good to me, to all of us. How'd Derek take it?"

"How do you think?" Mark pulled a face. "You know how he is."

"Black and white," Addison turned at the snap of the electric kettle boiling. She poured the water into two mugs and added sugar to his. She faced him again, letting the tea steep. "Ironic really, that her name's Meredith _Grey_. Well I hope for the sake of that child he can find it in him to forgive her better than he forgave me."

Mark pulled a carton of milk from her fridge and reached around her, rescuing his mug and dumping the tea bag in the trash before it had a chance to get too strong. She added milk to her mug and then his. They stood opposite each other in the kitchen, leaning against the counters, sipping earl grey thoughtfully. Addison was fiddling with the tag on the tea bag; she liked hers strong, always left the bag in the cup. "I suppose Amelia's timing couldn't have been worse then," she said.

Mark shrugged. "Is there ever a _good_time for it?"

"No, I suppose not."

"It does make me glad though, in a twisted way, that I'm not seeing anybody. And that Sofia has two mothers," he met her eyes over the rim of his mug. "Then again, it must be nice, for you, to have someone to get you through it."

She tilted her head to one side, questioning.

"Sam," he offered, slightly confused.

"Oh," she blew on the hot liquid, sending steam wafting toward the ceiling. "Yeah. Yeah it is."

"Who would have thought?" he echoed Derek's earlier sentiment, but he was speaking generally. "It's been eighteen years, you know, since we graduated. Who would've thought this would be where we'd end up?"

She smiled at him. "Not me. But life has a way of surprising you"

He raised his mug in a toast as Derek slammed the glass door to the deck closed and slumped against it, muting his argument with Meredith. "Well it certainly has a sense of humour," he observed, dryly.

Addison mimicked his gesture and sipped. "I'll drink to that."


End file.
